


Dragon's Nature

by agileassassin



Series: Dragon's Elegy [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, College of Winterhold Questline, Consequences, Dragons, Elder Scrolls Lore, Enemies, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fantastic Racism, Fantasy, Friends to Lovers, Gen, God Complex, Long, Magic, Mental Instability, Moral Ambiguity, Moral Dilemmas, Politics, Post-Skyrim Civil War, Post-Skyrim Main Quest, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sharing a Bed, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Thalmor Being Assholes (Elder Scrolls), Thalmor Embassy (Elder Scrolls)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:42:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28686555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agileassassin/pseuds/agileassassin
Summary: Ulfric Stormcloak is certain of only a few things about the Dragonborn, and after she returns from Sovngarde claiming to be a god that number dwindles to nearly nothing. But the Thalmor have begun to strengthen their grip on Skyrim, and the Dragonborn's ambitions will either take her to the heights she swears or to the Planes of Oblivion.And she intends on keeping him by her side, no matter the cost.
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn & Ulfric Stormcloak, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Ulfric Stormcloak
Series: Dragon's Elegy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2060967
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! I kinda slammed out a few chapters a lot quicker than I expected. I really really really want to get to the book after this and write that, but this entire thing kind of popped up and keeps getting longer and longer. So, yall are stuck with me on this bad boy. Hope it's not too much of a slog (like this first chapter. I swear it picks up eventually lmao)
> 
> Anyways, hope yall enjoy! Also, here's a link to a playlist I use to write
> 
> open.spotify.com/playlist/158FeG9rGCOWoymYshFt46?si=MXvKKl9GSPKk3YO8FYMCDA

Estormo healed away a burn that slipped past the edge of his ward, his flame atronach dancing in the ashes of that foolish Synod's own weak little conjuration. Researchers, all the same in their obsession of study. Study was meant to be applied, meant to be used, and used in the glorification of the Aldmeri Dominion, at that. His atronach twirled, flipped, and then exploded in a burst of light. Estormo hated her theatrics, but he hated even the thought of the effort of binding a new, less pompous Daedra more.

He patted down the Synods' bodies; their robes were enchanted with all sorts of little tricks that made surviving a delve into some gods-forsaken ruin like this one a little more likely, but the Synod was still too backwater to consider that someone like him may follow their little schemes. No, they were too tied up in short-sighted politics with that College of Whispers group to even look twice at the Dominion.

And the Dominion was too focused on subjugation of the lesser peoples to remember that, ultimately, they strove for the ascendance of the Altmer.

Fools, the lot of them.

At least Ancano had never lost sight of the true goal of the Thalmor, and he'd chosen Estormo to help him work for the Dominion when even they were distracted and scattered. He'd wondered why the talented mage from one of the Families of the Court had chosen him, a lowborn mage who'd never even seen combat in the Great War, to be his own personal spy. Perhaps that was precisely it; he'd never seen combat, and was from a simple trading family in Shimmerene. Estormo had no records on him outside of the mandatory conscription papers, and his marks had been high, but not exceptional.

He was unexceptional, unassuming, almost nonexistent, and he played the part well. As average as a naturally superior Altmer could be; not even the Great Court had paid him a second glance when he acted a guard, standing in the back of their meeting chambers, slipping notes from desks, poison in goblets, atronachs through windows. He was perfectly suited to get in, do his work, and get out, unlike the magnificent Mer Ancano was. Ancano walked into a room and took up all the air for himself.

Estormo pulled a thick research journal from the pockets of one of the Synod, paging through its notes on 'ancient' magic items and locations of 'power' and how to access them. He unfolded a map of Skyrim, pressed flat in the back cover of the journal, dotted with near-perfect circles with letters next to them; code. But no matter, the Synod had located quite a few of their low-level weak little…toys.

He stepped back and looked at the glowing light aimed at the wall, what the Synod had exclaimed was so unexpected before Estormo stepped in to kill them and tried to make heads or tails of it. It looked like two big blobs of light placed off-center of some strange shape--

No, that was…Skyrim? Estormo held up the map, trying to hold it still and line up the borders of the image with the borders of the map. Why was the Synod map so cluttered compared to this Dwemer construction? Perhaps magic had shattered since their disappearance, from a few impressive sources to a smattering of nothing special. The smaller of the lightpoints lined up to…somewhere in the mountains, and the other lined up to Winterhold.

Winterhold.

Where Ancano had come across that ancient glowing runic orb that he'd spent so many careful words describing, ordering Estormo to find out exactly what it was, what it was capable of. And Ancano had barely figured out a name for it over half a year ago; the Eye of Magnus. And nothing more about the Eye was said in his latest correspondence, nearly two months old now. It was unusual for Ancano to go more than a month without an update letter appearing under his head whilst he slept, but he was under strict orders not to initiate contact, to only reply briefly at very specific times. The absolute worst thing Estormo could do was to appear a letter in Ancano's lap when he was in a critical meeting with the First Emissary.

And, given that the Eye of Magnus was, no doubt, one of the more powerful objects in existence by virtue of having such a name, the smaller, dimmer light in the Skyrim mountains somewhere was less powerful, but on a similar level if the Synod were right in their notes on this Oculory. Estormo marked the location he'd need to travel to in charcoal, pocketing the notes.

He summoned his atronach once more, giving her a simple command. "Incinerate them. Leave no trace." And though the Daedroth had no true face to speak of, Estormo could've sworn she smiled.

* * *

A trickle of snowmelt found its way in the cracks between the stone floor, hastened by a chunk of ice falling from the Dragonborn's filthy hem. The moisture that had wicked up her robes past her knees was dry almost down to her ankles, the roaring fire uncomfortably warm to Ulfric. He sat by the table, straddling the bench to face her as she shivered by the fire. Every so often she would open her mouth and act like she was about to speak, before closing it again and sinking back into the chair with a little groan.

Lydia puttered around Breezehome, tidying what was already clean and making half an effort to put up the ruined armor and scales she'd carried in her sack. She talked about nothing in particular, jumping from explaining how her profits had been over the past month to detailing gossip she'd overheard at some tavern, seemingly just to fill the air with something over cracks from the logs and the Dragonborn's labored breathing.

She'd half-heartedly waved away any questions they'd asked her on the slow walk back. She'd collapsed in the first chair through the door, gasping something about catching her breath and collecting her thoughts. She'd pushed the Graybeard's robes past her elbows. The wounds on her forearms were mottled and strangely patterned, with occasional regular bands of pink scars rather than blisters of all colors.

"The Jarl is coming by this evening," she finally murmured as Lydia finished some inconsequential story about which shopkeep was seen leaving who's house by some barmaid. "I'd like to know everything that's happened before he arrives. Namely, the Thalmor, for starters."

"They arrived yesterday afternoon," Lydia explained. The Dragonborn stared at Ulfric, looking him up and down. She paused to focus on the lightning scars webbing his face, the bandages wrapping his right hand, the salve seeping through them in a bright blue. "That priest Heimskr is dead, and they blew up the Shrine. The Graymanes were arrested, too."

They were already arrested. That was the first Ulfric was hearing of it, granted, he'd spent the night under strict supervision of a priest who gave him no updates that weren't directly related to his own healing. His eyes burned with fatigue from lack of sleep, and a headache was beginning to gnaw at the base of his skull. But he was still in better shape than the Graymanes, arrested and ready to stand trial for their nonexistent crimes of daring to worship their own god.

"And they attacked Stormcloak," the Dragonborn added.

"No, they didn't," Ulfric corrected. "I took the spell for the man they did attack."

"Who?"

"Vignar Graymane."

"Damn." The Dragonborn winced and moved her hand to her abdomen. "Lydia, was any Graymane _not_ arrested?"

Lydia shrugged. "Depends on who you get your rumors from. Some say the kids are being shipped off to Honorhall, others say they saw little Annia being led out of the Clan hall in toddler-sized chains."

"Who's Annia?" The Dragonborn asked.

"Fralia's granddaughter. Her Ma's with child, and her Da's been missing for months," Lydia said. "Little girl can't be much older than three."

"Her father," Ulfric said, "is Thorald?"

The tense air in Breezehome somehow managed to get that much tenser. The Dragonborn looked towards Lydia; she wasn't too familiar with the Graymanes, it seemed. "Do you know what happened to him?" Lydia asked.

Other than what Fralia had sobbed to him not a day earlier, no. "He never joined my army. He's either dead or captured. Fralia asked me to find him and get him released."

"Ha! She'd better worry about her own self right now," the Dragonborn spat. "Anything else of note? Uthgerd bring any more brain-rotted messages from Delphine?"

"To tell you the truth," Lydia replied, "it's been fairly quiet here. The other Housecarls are either on schedule or slightly ahead of schedule."

"And you?" The Dragonborn turned to him.

"I joined the Companions."

"Ah. Good people. Have they hounded you about being a member of the Circle yet?"

Ulfric blinked. "It's been a month."

"Exactly. They dogged me about it after a few jobs." She wheezed and burst into a wet cough, swallowing hard and gasping for air briefly. "The Crown?"

Ulfric stomped on the floor. "Right here," he said. The Dragonborn nodded and choked back another cough. "What happened to you? I've never seen wounds like those--"

"Alduin's blood was poisonous, and Sovngarde is not for the living," she interrupted. "I'll tell the story when the Jarl arrives. It's long and I barely have the breath to speak it once. Lydia, I want to read any letters that came. Could you bring them here?" Lydia nodded and stepped upstairs. "Vittoria Vici's wedding is in a few months. Stormcloak, we need you to be on good terms with her." She paused to catch her breath. "And the rest of the Solitude nobility."

Ulfric was silent. Solitude wasn't like Whiterun; it's citizens couldn't be bought with gold and Companionship. No, they'd chased him out of the gates with arrows grazing his horse for miles. Perhaps she'd forgotten. The wounds on her head were substantial, a long gash was stitched up from her hairline and curved around to her cheek decorated what part of her face wasn't covered in burns and blisters. "You understand the last time I went to Solitude--"

"Vittoria told me she wanted to invite you," the Dragonborn interrupted. "She's marrying the son of Vulwulf Snowshod."

Vulwulf, the fanatical old man. While Ulfric had never been on quite as good terms with him as his father had, he'd always admired him for being so uncompromising in his beliefs. Vulwulf swore up and down it was him who'd convinced Jarl Laila to support his rebellion. His own son marrying the Emperor's cousin had to be devastating to him.

"She thought it might end the war," she continued.

"It doesn't matter what Vittoria thinks. Elisif will hang me the second I walk through her gates."

"You said the same thing about Jarl Balgruuf."

"Things are more personal for Elisif," Ulfric reminded her. Lydia handed the Dragonborn a stack of letters.

"She won't. She's a stupid woman who does as her steward advises. And her steward does as the Thanes advise. And guess who the Thanes answer to?" The Dragonborn ran her finger under the creased paper of the first letter, its wax seal already broken. Blood smeared over the paper and she drew her hand to her chest to staunch the cut.

She looked over at him. Ulfric sighed; of _course_ she actually wanted an answer. "You?"

"Mmm hmm."

"I _know_ she's a puppet. It's not the nobility I’m worried about," Ulfric argued. "It's the people."

"They didn't even like Torygg that much anyways."

"My Thane," Lydia said, "do you remember the first thing we saw in Solitude?"

The Dragonborn glanced up from the letter and thought for a second. "That was an anomaly."

"Oh, was it? They don't just execute people in broad daylight for no reason."

"They certainly tried it with Stormcloak and me."

Lydia grew two shades redder. "They tried to chop off your head for the same reason they chopped off that man's and by the Nine they'll try it again if you take Ulfric into Solitude!" Lydia moved to the other side of the fire to where the Dragonborn could see her better. Ulfric hadn't noticed her turning her head since she'd returned; she swiveled at her waist and darted her eyes around instead. "There's a letter from Jordis in there, and she's said they burned an effigy of Ulfric when Solitude got word of the end of the war."

Ulfric blinked. He knew he was well-hated, but taking the time to tie straw in his likeness and dress it up, only to set it on fire was a kind of animosity he'd never quite heard of. He was almost honored by it.

"They were celebrating the end of a war," the Dragonborn replied, trying to emphasize what she could around an increasingly graveled voice. "I'm sure there would've been similar festivities in Windhelm."

Well, he'd never had a real figurehead of an enemy to rally his armies around. General Tullius, maybe, but few ordinary people were familiar enough with the ins and outs of the Imperial Legion to recognize the name. And the masses of nameless Thalmor were appropriate, if they didn't scare the life out of half the Great War veterans in his army and far more of the unblooded. Which left the little waif Elisif, perhaps the least threatening thing to ever come out of such a grisly thing as war.

"Solitude never saw any fighting," the Dragonborn continued. "It's not like I'll leave him to his own devices for a month, either. He'll be fine, right, Stormcloak?" She flipped her letter to the other side.

Lydia looked at him, fuming. Ulfric wondered why she cared for his life so much; it's not like _she_ was the one vying for the Ruby Throne. Perhaps she figured that, if he were to die, the Dragonborn would be in a much worse position to enact her whimsies, and that hard work would be transferred to her. "I can defend myself against the common citizen, and perhaps a guard or two. But not the whole of Haafingar. If things are as delicate as Lydia claims, I'll be dead within the day," Ulfric said. "If not, politics is a game without many winners, especially in the Blue Palace. It was once the playground of choice for assassins."

"Oh, don't act afraid of a little assassin," the Dragonborn said. "None of the ones Tullius sent for you came back alive."

And none of them made it past his guard. One particularly inventive assassin had attempted to scale the side of the palace; he'd been discovered some time later with his brains frozen to the ground. But, regardless of creative attempts on his life, Ulfric didn't exactly have a guard sworn and dedicated to protect his own life with theirs. The Dragonborn slowly raised her bottle of bright red potion to her lips, taking a slow drink as he found the words to reply. "Angry mobs and well-paid assassins are two enemies I no longer have the resources to defend against."

"You’ve been relying on your reputation to protect you and your assets so long," Lydia said. "He doesn't have your reputation! It reflects poorly on you to drag him from Hold to Hold like some simple mercenary. People talk, my Thane. How long until rumors fly of you being some traitor to the Empire? You're lucky the rumors've focused on Ulfric, not you."

A thin line of potion dripped from the corner of the Dragonborn's mouth. "I'm accelerating things, Lydia," she replied. "I have an army of dragons, now. I killed an aspect of Akatosh and took his Soul to be my own. And Kynareth herself named me the Shezarrine. Since when do rumors dull the shine of divinity?"

Ulfric's stomach churned. The Dragonborn was claiming to be a god. Not just any god, either.

Talos, or a step away from Talos. By Kynareth herself, no less.

She was lying. She was delusional, and that was that. Ravings about him being High King, about her being Emperor, they were all as obtainable as dreams.

But Talos was once Tiber Septim; Dragonborn. And before that, He was Wulfharth the Ash-King, and before that, Pelinal Whitestrake. And if some theologians were to be believed, Talos is ultimately the reincarnation of the dead god Lorkhan. Of Shor. And who better to be Shor in mortal form than the woman who had just walked through Shor's own realm and returned to speak of it? Who better to announce it than the wife of Shor?

"You need to rest before the Jarl comes by," Lydia said. "I'll help you upstairs--"

"No, I want to sit by the fire," the Dragonborn interrupted. "I haven't been warm in weeks. Stormcloak, how are the Companions? Do they miss me?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trying to figure out what in the world is up with elder scrolls god lore gave me a migraine. also i have a note on this chapter that ulfric enters catholic beast mode? still trying to decode that one.

Ulfric kept the Dragonborn occupied by answering her little inquiries into how each and every Companion was doing. Every time he thought she had finally dozed off and he let his words trail into silence, she wondered aloud about some little quirk of Jorrvaskr and egged him to continue. And then he finally heard her wheezing slow, deepen, saw her arms slack on the chair.

He waited one minute, two minutes in near quiet, waiting for her to pop up and ask about the state of the Companion's beer or something of similar irrelevance. When she didn't, Ulfric slowly stood up and made his way to the back door as silently as he could.

Lydia was outside, shooting arrows at a practice dummy with passable accuracy. Ulfric walked behind her. "Your arm is too tense."

"Nariilu's lost her damn mind." Lydia loosed an arrow; it missed the dummy completely and bounced off the stone walls of the house. She stopped her foot and cursed as the arrow dropped. "Stealing Akatosh's Soul, talking to Kynareth, she's gone too far this time."

Ulfric wanted to agree with her. He wanted to assure Lydia that, yes, the Dragonborn was going mad. How had they let her go on unchecked for this long? Surely, she was in need of intervention. Ulfric bit the inside of his cheek. But stealing the Soul of a dragon, even if that dragon was an avatar of a god, that was simply what the Elder Scrolls had prophesized of her. And talking to Kynareth? How was that any different from any priest receiving a visit in a dream from their chosen Divine? He wanted to push aside the almost flippant claims of the Dragonborn as nothing more than delusion. Instead, he shrugged.

Lydia couldn't see him; she nocked another arrow and continued. "Damn what I said about her secrets; you know she wants to be Empress?" She fired the arrow for emphasis. "Yeah. It's those Graybeards' fault. Crazy Elf thinks being Dragonborn makes her Talos or something. I think that's why she got obsessed with saving your life." Her arrow hit the target in a small cluster of arrows. She had a tendency to aim slightly up and to the right.

"What do you mean it's the Graybeard's fault?" Ulfric asked. He wanted to march back inside and wake up the Dragonborn, force her to give a complete rundown of every tiny detail that'd happened since she flew away on Odahviing.

"She wasn't the same after coming back from High Hrothgar," Lydia explained. "Especially not after taking them that horn. Says the Graybeards called her Talos, and she decided that means she gets to found her own Empire."

Well, the last time all the Graybeards spoke _was_ to recognize Tiber Septim as…well, Tiber Septim. And now they'd spoken for her, three times. Talos himself only received two recognitions from them. Still, he'd assumed the Dragonborn had such lofty ambitions simply because she was _the_ Dragonborn. Not because she believed herself to be a god reborn. "So, you knew of this for how long, and are just now taking issue with it?"

"I thought she was joking."

"The Dragonborn is out here founding cities and marching on Holds and making deals with Jarls and you thought she was _joking?_ "

"Not about the Empire thing, I knew she was serious about that," Lydia snapped. "The…the _other_ thing. Maybe she's still joking. Laughing at us for believing her." She reached down to an empty quiver and chuckled.

Ulfric crossed his arms and watched the Housecarl relax. Lydia lowered her bow and tapped it on the ground. "Two questions," he said. "One, what if she's serious?"

"Then she's crazy and needs help."

He wanted to agree with her simple answer. "Two, why does this change anything for you?"

Lydia turned and stared at him. "Isn't it obvious? All of her goals are because she thinks herself to be a Divine. She's not, obviously, but she's been helping people all this time. Empress has never been obtainable to her. She's just a woman with her heart in the right place and her head in the clouds."

"She's 'just a woman' who happens to have the Soul of a dragon, and just returned from Sovngarde!"

Lydia sputtered. "You actually believe her! Ulfric, you're so desperate to move back up in the world--"

"Do you think Tiber Septim's allies had the same discussion about him when he walked on Nirn?" Ulfric argued, cutting her off. "You can't deny that she _is_ Dragonborn, blessed by Akatosh, as was Talos before her."

"That doesn't _make_ her Talos," Lydia dropped her voice low, tapping her bow to his chest with each word. "That just makes her Dragonborn."

"What about the other things she said?" Ulfric pressed. "About Alduin's Soul? About Kynareth?

Lydia wiped at her face with her free hand. "Hold on, hold on. You actually think she's telling the truth? Come on, Ulfric, you're exhausted. You nearly died yesterday, and I can tell you didn't get much sleep last night."

Ulfric frowned and threw his good hand towards Breezehome. "By Ysmir, Lydia, you were _just_ trying to convince me she's dead! Why don't we just wait and see before we pass judgement?"

"Because I don't want to be skeptic about this!"

"If the Divines strike her down," Ulfric said, "then she is delusional. A false god in the Thalmor sense of the word. If not, the Dragonborn isn't serious or…or actually--"

"Pelinal Whitestrake? Which is it, Ulfric? Is she Shor or Talos? Maybe Akatosh? Baren-fucking-ziah?"

" _Maybe_ we wait and see what she says when she isn't half dead!" Ulfric argued. "You say _I'm_ too tired to form my own thoughts, what about her? I wouldn't be surprised if we have to carry her corpse to the Hall of the Dead before Balgruuf arrives."

Lydia bit her lip. "Fine. But she is _not_ a god. No one is."

"You sound like the Thalmor," Ulfric spat back. Lydia fumed at him and thrust her bow on the ground, shoving him back as she turned and left the yard through the ruined wall.

* * *

_4E203 FS 29_

_Nariilu,_

_Word arrived yesterday morning on the end of the war. I suppose I owe you a case of Illiac Brandy! I hope to share it before my wedding. I'll be hard-pressed to have a reception that outclasses these celebrations! You'd best return to Solitude in time for my vows! Sofie asked to be my flower girl--act surprised when she tells you. I assumed you'd allow it._

_I can hardly believe my wedding is only five months away! Oh, I know you hate talk of love, but let me be as much of a romantic as Mara herself. Asgeir…I fall more and more in love with him every day. Of course, we can only correspond through letters, recently. He's been so busy in Riften now that Maven Blackbriar is the Jarl. She doesn't have as much time for the business, but the Meadery is exploding!_

_How I look forwards to these times of peace. Hopefully with the end of the war and my marriage into a Nord family (and vice versa) will be just what the Empire needs to rally itself and stop all this infighting. Titus wrote me recently about the need for a symbol of unity, so I've written back for him to officiate my marriage._

_Blessings from the Eight (and your favorite neighbor)_

_Vittoria Vici_

_~_

_4E203 RH 3_

_Nariilu,_

_Rumors are flying. Did you take Ulfric Stormcloak as your prisoner? How long were you planning this? Please know I was joking about having him propose to Elisif upstage my wedding._

_Speaking of our capable Jarl, she's barely been seen since news of the end of the war. I had tea with her two days ago, and she was quieter than usual. I think she's afraid of having to follow through with her promises to take over her late husband's position. Poor girl doesn't have the heart for politics; she's far too much of it. Erikur and Bryling have apparently been seen conversing, which is about the most concerning thing I've ever heard. But, that's only according to_

_Anyways, not to worry you with foolish rumors. You'll likely soon arrive. I imagine returning order to a conquered city isn't the most timely activity, especially the seat of the Rebellion. Give Ulfric Stormcloak my best, if he truly is with you!_

_Blessings from the Eight (and safe travels)_

_Vittoria Vici_

_~_

_4E203 RH 14_

_Nariilu,_

_You absolute madwoman! News of that dragon in Whiterun has traveled faster than any scandal. Oblivion, my dear cousin could be assassinated (Divines forbid such a fate) and I'd find out slower than this. Nobody quite believes it, but could you blame them? Capturing a dragon, only to let it go free? I trust you've planned this further than I, and see some benefit to it._

_My last letter to you was on the life of Ulfric Stormcloak, at least briefly. It seems rumors fly around you (just like that dragon has flown away), though you've gotten him out of the town gossip with this little stunt. I fear for your reputation; Ulfric wasn't the most popular man here, for obvious reasons. Discussion on his escape from death at the end of the war has been centered not on him, but on you. Nobody quite knows why you spared him._

_I believe consensus was more or less that General Tullius wanted an execution in front of the Emperor and Senate, and you're simply escorting him to the Imperial City. On the other hand, I've also heard a rather convincing drunk claim you've been shacking up with each other for years now, and the rebellion was all a ruse to run away to Atmora together._

_I suppose only you two know, but, please, at least attend my wedding before fleeing the continent with your scandalous lover. And name a child after yours truly!_

_Blessings from the Eight (Dibella especially)_

_Vittoria Vici_

_~_

_4E203 RH 27_

_Nariilu,_

_I doubt you've been receiving my recent letters, so I'll forgive you for your slow responses. I ran into Jordis in the market today and she's told me that she received word from your Housecarl in Whiterun that you've gone and flown away on that dragon! Even more, apparently your destination was the Nord afterlife (the specific name of it escapes me) to kill Alduin. Now, I'm as familiar with Nord myths as any upstanding Imperial who lives in Skyrim, but I do recall you telling me of Helgen. Isn't Alduin the dragon at fault for that catastrophe?_

_My dearest neighbor, I've been in the Temple praying for your safe return since I heard and until the priests kicked me out. Even writing it makes me laugh. A safe return from the afterlife? You'll return necromantic to compliment my romanticism. But do not worry; I'll find a dying Nord to pass along my greetings to you._

_Blessings from the Eight (seems you've great need of them)_

_Vittoria Vici_

* * *

Ulfric scanned over the Dragonborn's letters, fallen from her lap and scattered across the floor. Some had landed close enough to the fire that their corners curled and darkened, ink moistening under the heat. Only the letters from Vittoria Vici and a few that were almost unreadable under frequent use of single-letter substitutions for words and phrases signed only as cities they originated from had been opened. Ulfric didn't dare break the wax seals on other letters; some decorated with simple stamps of initials and others with ornate crests, including one that was obviously an Imperial general's official seal.

He folded the letters closed and gently placed them on the low table next to her, removing an empty potion bottle. Up close, Ulfric noticed her breathing was just out of sync. He studied her wounds; they almost reminded him of the kinds unfortunate travelers received if they took a 'shortcut' through the hotmarshes. But, her wounds were scabbing over where they could rather than bubbling with pus and heat.

Ulfric wondered how far they reached beneath her robes, whether the injuries on her face connected to the similar scabs on her hands or if they were completely separate affairs. And what else was hidden from sight? The gash on her head wasn't clean around its neat little stitches; it was jagged and rough as if someone had cut through the wound over and over with a dull knife. At the very least, her robes were free of blood. Perhaps that’s why he couldn't see any visible bandages; the Graybeards weren't equipped for injuries beyond headaches from meditating too hard. Treating the Dragonborn had likely used up a century worth of medical supplies.

And that's likely why they allowed her to leave in her condition, he realized. If she could walk enough to…well, to ride a _dragon_ , she was well enough to seek more equipped healers than a handful of old monks. Which she hadn't, not really, not beyond getting a few health potions. How had she escaped an overnight stay with much worse injuries than him?

"You look like Ysgramor."

Ulfric stepped back, he'd been leaning in far too close to inspect her. The Dragonborn's eyes were still closed, her eyes sunken with dark circles ghosting her lower eyelids.

"You woke me up. Quit stomping around so loud."

"Oh. Sorry."

The Dragonborn rolled one shoulder after the other. Her bones popped louder than the fire. "It was her spell wasn't it?"

He froze. Ulfric refused to think about who had given him his own injuries. He'd much rather focus on who gave the Dragonborn such painful looking scars. No, it'd be no use to crawl into his own head and drown in whispers of guilt, to let himself focus on that little tingle of lightning that lingered and ran over his skin every time he moved just a little too fast.

At least the Dragonborn hadn't said her name. Ulfric could at least live in ambiguity; there was another female Thalmor with…Yes, the one who had paralyzed him. He'd already forgotten her name. It was nice to be able to forget little useless bits of information like that. Useless, just like all he'd amounted to over the years.

"Ysgramor, huh?" Ulfric replied, digging his nails into his palm. A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead, and he felt uneasy on his feet. He moved to lean against the wall, trying his best to make it look natural, instead of an attempt to keep from collapsing. He'd collapsed, yesterday. More than once. The quilt behind him gave way; he'd put his weight right over the hole where his Dossier was hidden.

"Yeah. Same face. His beard's far more impressive though," she said. "Don't worry, he's had a few thousand more years to grow it out than you. And Ysgramor's taller. Somehow."

Ulfric opened his mouth to respond, to try and go along with her little mood-lightening banter, but couldn't find anything that fit. Of course he'd never live up to Ysgramor, even if it was something as mundane as in beard-fullness or height. And if Ulfric couldn't grow a beard worthy of an Atmoran, how could he ever hope to live up to Ysgramor's leadership, his wisdom, his strength?

"Oh, and Wulfrend Stormcloak says hello," the Dragonborn said. "Says he's proud of you, for all that's worth to you."

His mind swam with the names of his ancestors, little quips of their great deeds clearing the fog of his own failures from his thoughts. Wulfrend, his great-great-grandfather's younger brother who went and actually completed his training with the Greybeards. Or, she could mean Wulfrend, however many generations back, from the mid-Third Era, married to the Count of Bruma. No, she definitely meant Wulfrend, the Jarl of Windhelm appointed by Tiber Septim himself.

Yes, she definitely meant Jarl Wulfrend. Ulfric had ended the six-hundred year Stormcloak dynasty in Windhelm. What an awful insult for him to say he was 'proud'. Proud that he'd destroyed the legacy of his entire Clan. And the Dragonborn had missed the dishonor in his message, provided she hadn't made up the entire conversation with Wulfrend. Lydia would probably claim she'd been digging in some history tome just to get a rise out of him.

"I've never heard of him, but I don't go climbing around in your family tree," the Dragonborn continued. "He was Thane to High Queen Sidgne. Never heard of her, either. He was Dragonborn, though."

_That_ Wulfrend. One of the first prominent members of the Stormcloak Clan, from all the thousands of years back in the closing days of the First Era. While his family tree didn't quite take root with him (that honor went to Ysgramor), Wulfrend was the foundation of a solid trunk that twisted and turned through Housecarls and Jarls and High Kings and Queens. And while the little list of deeds included his marriage to Sidgne's sister, his ferocity as a warrior, his mastery of the Thu'um, his status as Dragonborn had been lost to history, if it had ever actually been the case.

Even worse, Wulfrend's cause of death was listed as a dragon attack; his twin daughters' deeds listed the avengement of their father. Dragonborn were exceptionally equipped to fight dragons; the Last Dragonborn sat before him admittedly worse for wear, but having survived a battle with Alduin himself. Wulfrend wouldn't've fallen to a dragon had he truly been Dragonborn. Ulfric cursed himself, perhaps Lydia was right about her mind.

Unless. He'd fought more dragons alongside the Dragonborn in a scant month than he'd received reports of across all of Eastmarch in two whole years. She openly admitted they sought her out for challenge; she wouldn't fare well unprepared or in old age. Who better to die against a dragon than a Dragonborn, now that he considered it? But, still, for all he knew or cared, the Dragonborn had raided Wulfrend's tomb, read about his great deeds on his own sarcophagus, perhaps even in Skuldafn. Not entirely proof of having a conversation with a dead man.

"His daughters weren't Dragonborn, though. Jhunya and Marla, right?" The Dragonborn continued. Ulfric studied her; her eyes were still closed, though her forehead was pinched in a frown. "They started the tradition of carving their tutor's names in the wall of their nursery. Wulfrend wishes he'd told his girls to carve smaller if he'd known it catch on. Instead, he made them polish the guard's helmets."

Ulfric leaned harder against the wall, feeling a bit of burnt wood break off behind him. His heart beat in his chest; the nursery off-limits to all but the most trusted few guard, the family of the Jarl, their handpicked nursemaids. Not even the steward was allowed that deep into the quarters. Even more, the wall in question carved with hundreds of names by little hands, was covered with a grand tapestry.

A quick glance or even a short stay in the room wouldn't reveal all the choice words children had immortalized towards their tutors. No, it'd taken nearly a decade for Ulfric to get bored one day and peel back the heavy cloth to hide behind it. And he'd seen his father's name clumsily carved alongside a certain 'Avesthar Milk-Face'. He hadn't finished adding his own and his tutor's names by the time he left for High Hrothgar.

But, sure enough, the biggest names, right in the center of the wall had been Jhunya and Marla Stormcloak, and their tutors, 'Rat Bottom Botriva + Svalof the Stupid'.

"How do you know about that wall?" Ulfric asked. His voice sounded like no more than a whisper by the time it reached his own ears an eternity later. No one knew about that wall. Even he had almost forgotten about its existence over the years.

"You've quite a few ancestors in Sovngarde," the Dragonborn said. "I thought you'd like a little proof that your family still watches over you."

No, they couldn't-- _shouldn't_ watch over him. They saw failure after failure, weakness and disaster and downfall of _everything._ Ulfric's eyes stung with exhaustion, his stomach churned with the weight of all he'd done. And to think the Dragonborn meant to reassure him by reminding him of the great deeds that he'd undermined. Destroyed.

"And…" she trailed off into a deep sigh. "I'm not supposed to say anything. But Sovngarde is a place outside of time. Alduin himself was outside of time. I've seen great deeds from you. Your family is so proud of you--" Ulfric clenched his hands into the quilt on the wall, trying to force himself to feel each woven thread, each stitch rather than listen to her. How could they possibly be proud of him? "--not just for what you've done, but for what you _will_ do."

Ulfric shook his head. "You're lying. I know what my ancestors value. I am nothing to them." He was nothing to anyone, really. He'd just be a footnote in history, no matter who wrote it, and that would make his Clan proud. He'd no longer be a stain on them once he was dead and gone. Maybe it was a blessing that the Dragonborn was here since she'd overshadow him and his misdeeds in every song just by virtue of being the Dragonborn to slay Alduin.

He realized he was crying for the second time in a day; the burning behind his eyes wasn't exhaustion, not completely. Ulfric decided the gods had some mercy for him since the Dragonborn still had her eyes closed, but the gods wanted to laugh at him since she opened them and looked at him just as he felt another tear run down his cheek and catch itself in his beard. "Stormcloak, I swear on my life, I'm not trying to make you feel worse than I do," she said, sitting up straighter. Now she was pitying him. "Your father told me to tell you this: 'After every winter, the bear wakes'."

Ulfric slid down the wall, trying to convince himself he wasn't collapsing. Those were the last words he'd ever heard his father say, right before he marched his army to Markarth. And those were the words Ulfric's father said to him every time he was unsure, nervous, about to go off to his mother's funeral, to High Hrothgar, to war. Words that the Great Bear of Eastmarch never wrote down, and he surely hadn't, either. Words that were only whispered in reassurance on a handful of occasions.

She really had spoken to his father.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I call this one the 'i have three more chapters written but they all suck so bad and im kind of burnt out by everything all the time' special  
> anyways uhhh guess whos got two degrees and a real job now? i asked the universe to give me a reason to waste hours on zillow and by the gods she provided

Those were _his_ memories she was rifling through.

Wulfrend almost wasn't aware of it at first. The pain of death was beyond comprehension; his body shattered into a thousand frozen shards and scattered, dissolving, nothing. Perhaps that was because he hadn't felt much since he ascended to Sovngarde. Perhaps dying a second time hadn't hurt all that much, but instead he'd been overwhelmed with the first true sensation he'd felt in two thousand years.

And he focused on that pain for a while, since the only alternative was to rage at her. The Last Dragonborn. His murderer. Her Soul lorded over his own and a hundred others in…well, Wulfrend wasn't entirely sure where he was. He figured he had been absorbed by her in some twisted fate that Akatosh had set into motion for his own amusement.

There were others, too. Most of them were dragons that idled around, occasionally pushing against the invisible walls of a dark, swirling void. Their souls were multicolored, large things that seemed to have already contented themselves with being prisoners of their murderer. They whispered songs of revenge, of power they would take from their self-proclaimed overlord, how they would rise once her mortal body finally failed and they were released. The dragons Wulfrend himself had devoured in life followed him, sharing similar sentiments towards both himself and this Elf that held them all.

Six others raged along with him, the other Dragonborn he'd grown so fond of over the millennia they lounged in Sovngarde. Smaller than the dragons, and a different kind of multicolored. Wulfrend had seen the Aurora form over a golden sunset, once, the Dragonborn's Souls reminded him of that beautiful scene, rather than the white base of the dragons.

And Nariilu Therel's Soul--Wulfrend cringed, _she hated_ him thinking her name--had started out that same golden color, too. He'd only seen it briefly, before its gold began to swirl with an impossibly deep black above them all. The dragons had screeched out for the death of Alduin, watching a new Soul stream in, almost forming into another to crowd up the space with an endless void before it disappeared almost completely, save for a sliver that embedded itself in her own Soul.

If Wulfrend stared at her Soul enough, he could almost see through it. It was different than seeing, feeling, experiencing life through her own body, which, granted, was awfully painful at the moment. Her memories were close to the surface of her Soul, yet buried deep. And it felt like every time her Soul lashed out at them, to get the dragons, the Dragonborn to submit to her, he came that much closer to breaking through.

He realized with growing dread, anger, _fear_ , that connection went both ways.

She pinned him down and dug through his essence almost methodically, looking for something she could use. Wulfrend fought her at every step of the way, but not having a body was disorienting and the dragons were helping her. Helping her keep his Soul still and vulnerable, helping fight back the Dragonborn that could never get close enough to her to do anything to stop her. She'd beat them into a sort of scornful subservience since she devoured them, and they raged against her even as they dutifully obeyed, like a child making a show of chores.

And then Wulfrend saw his memories play out above him, heard her voice portray their events. His two little girls-- _don't you_ ** _dare_** _touch them--_ complaining of their noses burning from the polishing he'd made them do, with their bright little eyes and red heads. He'd not gotten to see them like this in forever; they were grown women in Sovngarde. And tears came to his eyes, because he'd never get to tuck them in again or even remember tucking them in again without her taking all that emotion for her own.

But he felt his sadness drip into her, if only by so much.

She dove deeper into his memories, looking for…for… _something_. He heard his descendant's voice, Ulfric Stormcloak, sounding in an echo above him. And then Wulfrend heard his own voice, layered by Nariilu Therel's-- _how dare he speak her name--_ as she spoke his own words again, twisting them for her own means. Sifted through what he'd seen watching over his Clan as if she was playing in the snow. Her Soul _laughed_ as he tried to resist, and she finally found what she had been searching for with a satisfied glow.

Wulfrend shouted at her with all the voice he had in him. He tried to remember what it felt like to breathe, to Shout, what it felt like to swing a weapon, to fight back an enemy that wanted to destroy you and all you stood for. Nariilu Therel--she roared above him, pushing a sharp cold pain through him--did not care what he tried to do. Her body had opened its eyes; Ulfric Stormcloak looked so much like his father, but where Hoag's shoulders were firm and wide, Ulfric's were fallen upon his chest.

He looked through Nariilu Therel's-- _his Overlord--_ eyes and into Ulfric's, begging him to get rid of that spark of trust, pleading with him to kill her.

* * *

Balgruuf arrived with a choice bottle of wine in one hand and another tucked under his arm, knocking once before he let himself in. "Make yourself at home," the Dragonborn muttered. She'd been dozing on and off all afternoon, only rising a few times to drink water like she was trying to drown herself or to poke the fire back to life with her new staff. Ulfric almost managed to take a nap himself, but decided to busy himself by plucking all of Lydia's arrows out of the target (and unfortunate surrounding areas) and sharpening them for her after he woke from a dream of corpses and pain. She hadn't returned from earlier, though it was well into dusk by now.

"It's my city," Balgruuf responded. He dragged the free chair opposite the Dragonborn, a simple cloak and tunic replacing his usual embroidered garb and fur cape.

"It's my damned house."

"Consider it a tax on unlocked doors, my Thane. Where are your glasses?"

Ulfric pulled four glasses from the cupboard. Balgruuf thanked him in a grunt and poured too much wine in each glass from a dark green bottle. "Water mine down," the Dragonborn said as Balgruuf filled the last glass. He grabbed his glass and sat down opposite her. "I'm serious. I know how strong that is. You'll kill me." Ulfric took a long drink of the dry, earthen wine until the glass was closer to half-full. He ladled water in the goblet, watching the deep blood red turn to a light crimson.

The Dragonborn glared at him, but still took the glass from him in a slow, stuttered movement when he offered it. He shrugged at her and sat down backwards on the dining bench, waiting for someone to speak. "Well, Jarl, let's hear it."

"First trial's tomorrow," Balgruuf said simply, "For the entire Graymane Clan. Other arrests haven't started yet. Those four Justiciars that you saw are staying. From what I can figure, the Ambassador is staying long enough to decide if I should be put on trial for that Shrine and then leaving."

"She won't get you, Jarl," the Dragonborn said. "It's likely nothing more than theatrics to scare you in line. Where are they keeping the Graymanes?" She raised her cup and took a sip that barely wet her lips.

"You're not breaking them out, if that's what you're thinking," Balgruuf stated. "They're in my dungeon, and she knows what happened to the last Justiciars she sent my way. Whiterun is on _very_ thin ice."

"Well, since there's a trial, I suppose you and I'll be on the court," the Dragonborn said. "There's that, at the very least."

Ulfric bit his tongue. "Actually, the Thalmor are holding the trial," he said.

"What? No, Talos Trials are the same as treason trials," she mentioned.

"Turns out, having a Talos shrine in the city center makes you biased," Balgruuf spat. He took a long drink from his cup. "I…The Graymanes may be beyond help."

The Dragonborn was silent for a while. "I think it might be time to start thinking long-term. Where will Whiterun be in a year, ten years, a century?"

"What kind of question is that?" Balgruuf raised his voice.

"Do you intend to stay Jarl of Whiterun?"

"Of course!"

"Then you can't get arrested. Or dethroned." The Dragonborn put her glass down and leaned forwards. Ulfric almost missed her wince as she moved. "They want a second Great War, eventually. Now that peace is here, all they need is one incident. One little thing to justify retaliation. How do you think your people would react if you were arrested and executed for Talos worship?"

They'd rally. A martyr of one of the most popular, no, _the_ most popular Jarl in Skyrim would have swords raised throughout the province. Even if they ghosted him away and had him killed in some backwater town, word spreads fast. Ulfric had seen a harsh jump in recruitment after rumors of his almost-execution in Helgen started to get around. "You want me to sit back and do nothing," Balgruuf formed each of his words slowly, deliberately. "Watch as my people are killed."

"I really think you're overreacting, Jarl. Markarth's had a Justiciar for years, and he's not managed to arrest a single--"

"Do you have any idea what's been happening in Windhelm?" Balgruuf cut her off. Ulfric looked up, Balgruuf was staring at him, that same strained look on his face.

"What did those bastards do to my city?" Ulfric pressed. He bit his tongue. It wasn't his city, not anymore, but--Kyne's Breath, he wished it still was. Someday, perhaps it'd be his again. Return to Windhelm as its ruler, return Windhelm to its former glory.

"Windhelm got three Justiciars," Balgruuf explained. "And three hundred dead. Three thousand more are set for trial."

Ulfric felt his heart drop. What was Free-Winter doing over there, to let such devastation happen? But, on the other hand, he knew damn well that over half the Hold could be tried and executed for Talos worship. Those numbers could easily inflate to the tens, hundreds of thousands, if the Thalmor cared to make such a statement.

"That's not that bad!" The Dragonborn protested. "Not compared to what happened in the Imperial City, and the rest of Cyrodiil after the War. Hell, even my Siege took far more…What I’m saying is, we have to look on the bright side of things. For all we know, the Graymanes will be let off and things will settle down, like they have in Markarth."

Yes, Ulfric thought, things settled down in Markarth quite well after thousands of deaths. The place went backwards in terms of peace; sometimes Ulfric wondered if he should've ignored the call for aid and just let the Hold work out its own chaotic equilibrium. He realized his wine had been long finished; he hadn't noticed himself drinking.

"Markarth isn't a place I strive to emulate, my Thane."

"Talos was never exceptionally popular in the Reach," Ulfric muttered. Balgruuf had also noticed his empty glass and refilled it without a word.

"Forget about the Reach," the Dragonborn said, waving away their words. "I should've led with this rather than that fool of an Agent they've got over there. The Dominion can't afford another war right now. The Great War devastated them, and Altmer age slowly, even by Elven standards. Their first generation after the Great War are barely in their first years of magical training. They've got to be on their best behavior so as not to provoke anyone, even a weakened Empire. They want a war, but to end _us_ , not themselves, which is exactly what they'd get if they mess up in the near future; five years to a decade."

Balgruuf sat back and crossed his arms. "Regardless, you want me to sit back and play along? With the _Thalmor?_ Ulfric, you're hearing this, right? And you're not complaining? Screaming insults at them, how they undermine the True Nord Way?"

Ulfric shrugged. "'Playing along' is likely just what the Thalmor expect. They've made puppets of us all," he said, trying not to outright agree with the Dragonborn, not in front of Balgruuf. He'd never let him live it down. "However, their arrogance could be to our advantage. Lure them into a false sense of security by playing the good defeated Jarl."

"Like you have been, eh?" Venom slipped into Balgruuf's words, whether he meant it or not.

"I--don't try me, Balgruuf," Ulfric warned. "Take the gold and sign the treaties like everyone expects you to."

Balgruuf moved to stand, Ulfric began to push himself up as well, but the Dragonborn's shrill wheeze caught them both in their tracks. "And since I've found myself the leader of an army of dragons, the Thalmor's days are numbered. Would you two like to hear the story, or bicker like children?"

* * *

Nariilu realized she'd have to pause to catch her breath during her retelling of her time in Skuldafn and Sovngarde. And Lydia would just have to miss it, wherever she was. She'd been vaguely aware of a shouting match of sorts that'd occurred in the yard, but about what, Nariilu couldn't say. And she wasn't sure if she even wanted to know, after seeing the state Stormcloak had been in all afternoon.

If she didn't know any better about her Housecarl, she'd think Lydia had decided to give men a try and gone and broken Stormcloak's heart. Which he apparently had one of. One that could be poked and prodded, just like Elenwen detailed in the Dossier. He was exceptionally susceptible to family, and family secrets that he thought he only knew of had just solidified that much more trust in her. And considering his deep eye circles and the ghastly wounds Elenwen had given him, she'd almost felt bad lying to the man.

But he'd never really trusted her in the first place, and rightfully so, after everything she'd put him through. Destroying his army and philosophy, dragging him from place to Thalmor-infested place, putting him in front of danger after dragons, even managing to sour his opinion on Maven Blackbriar, and whatever other slights he definitely held against her, it was nothing short of divine intervention that he was still here. And while they shared a goal or two of destroying the Dominion, of strengthening whatever Empire she crowned him in, shared goals were alliances at best. Not trust. Not like what she'd need to actually pull it off without making enemies of the entire continent.

She knew it'd be damn near impossible for her to get his trust, he was the famed Elf-hater, Empire-damner, Ulfric Stormcloak, after all. Nariilu figured she'd have to find a way to remind the man that she was Ysmir, Talos reborn, which would be easy enough to do if she could get him to climb to High Hrothgar, but it was so convenient for Wulfrend to lend his Soul to her. She made sure to thank him after he'd shared his memories, thank him for keeping such a close watch over his Clan for all those millennia.

Still, Nariilu wasn't _just_ Talos, was she? No, Talos was Dragonborn, Dragonborn were all Akatosh. Hence, that giant dragon avatar of Martin Septim in the Imperial City. Even the blood of a Dragonborn diluted a hundred to one could invoke that kind of power to close the Oblivion Gates, to stop a rampaging Daedric Prince. And in its pure form, Nariilu could ascend to her rightful place as Divine. Head of the Divines, Dragon-God of Time, yes, those titles rather suited her.

"Well, I suppose I'll start at the beginning, then," she said. "Riding a dragon isn't that difficult, surprisingly. Fairly comfortable, all things considered, as well. It was only a few hours to Skuldafn. There really is a portal there, powered by this staff." Nariilu picked up the staff from where it leaned against her chair and twirled it once, almost twice--she sat it down, feeling its magic start to get restless, her arms pulling against the weight of the metal. "Well guarded, of course. Whole city is untouched and crawling with Draugr and Dragon Priests and dragons. All of them under Odahviing's command, which means my command, now."

Balgruuf uncorked the second bottle of wine, having emptied the rest of the first into Stormcloak's glass. Nariilu figured they'd both be heavyweights when it came to intoxication, but even the slightest buzz would keep them from protesting the few embellishments she'd decided to add. The Jarl's method of drowning his sorrows would drown any confusion he had concerning her tale. She continued, "So, after a week of crawling through the city and the crypts--I really could spend a whole day talking about it. Fascinating place, full of well-preserved…everything." She paused to cough. "Regardless, Sovngarde is what you're interested in, no?"

"I'm most interested in what's got you looking like a Draugr," Balgruuf said.

"Alright, I'll save the details of my trek through Skuldafn for the ballad they'll sing of my great deeds."

"Short damn ballad," Balgruuf muttered. Stormcloak snorted. Nariilu chose to ignore him. At least the men were finding some levity, even if it came in the bottom of a bottle.

She huffed. "Well, every Nord since the beginning of time was right; Sovngarde is to die for." Nariilu made sure to follow up quick, lest one of them make some quip about her admitting Stormcloak was right about something. "Even more to die for now that Alduin isn't devouring every single Soul. He Shouted a horrible, deadly mist that enveloped the land that took my breath away. Still haven't quite caught it back.

"So I Shouted for Alduin and he didn't answer my challenge, the coward," Nariilu lied. "He hid in the mist, and every time I tried to Shout and clear it, it would come back thicker than before. So I went to the Hall of Valor to find some old Tongues who could help get rid of that fog." She paused, half for emphasis, half to catch her breath, half to gather her words before the next part of her story. Because it was quite possibly the most critical part to get Stormcloak and Jarl Balgruuf to accept her as Divine.

"I should've read up on Sovngarde," Nariilu said, "because, well, you two probably know this, but it caught me quite off-guard. There's a giant whale skeleton bridge you have to cross to get to the Hall of Valor, and the bones are so far apart I thought I'd fall into the Void." The two men looked contentedly bored, each sipping wine at occasional intervals. "But there's not actually a gap; it's a solid force, though it doesn't look like it. So do try and remember that after you die. Honestly, the worst part of the whole ordeal was opening the heaviest damn doors in the entire Aurbis. But Ysgramor greeted me as soon as I entered--"

"Wait," Stormcloak protested. Nariilu barely kept her smile to more than a twitch of her cheek. "What about Tsun?"

She put on her best 'trying to remember but can't quite place the name' face. "I…Was it someone you knew? Because I don't think--"

"The Master of Trials," Jarl Balgruuf said. "The Guardian of the Whalebone Bridge."

"Oh, yes, him. What about him?"

"Well? What did he say about a Dark Elf trying to pass through to Shor's Hall?" the Jarl pressed.

"He didn't mention it," Nariilu continued. "He greeted me as Ysmir, just like the Greybeards do, and he let me pass."

Stormcloak's eyes narrowed. "And you didn't fight him?"

"No, he fought Alduin with me. Can you let me tell my own story in order?" Nariilu paused and took a sip of her wine. It was still a bit too strong for her liking, but she'd grown tired of thin broth and vegetables stewed to easily swallowed mush. "Nobody fought me, not even Ysgramor. I know, I couldn't believe it either! But I suppose he never saw a Dark Elf in his life, and I kept my helmet on."

The Jarl held up one hand. "Hold on, hold on. Tsun tests all who pass to Shor's Hall."

Nariilu would've shrugged had she been able. "All dead, maybe. His exact wording was 'Welcome, long awaited Ysmir, Dragon of the North, blessed Breath of Storm and Ghosts.' And he knelt and let me go on the Bridge." And she paused for them to process what she'd just said, watching the gears turn individually between them both. "Anyways, Ysgramor--"

"What about Kynareth?" Stormcloak argued.

"Kynareth comes later."

" _What_ about Kynareth?" Jarl Balgruuf asked.

"No more interruptions! By the Nine, I'm trying to keep this fairly short, my lungs hurt enough as it is. Ask for detail at the end." She took a breath, not as deep as she'd like. "So, _Ysgramor."_

* * *

The Dragonborn was utterly hopeless, when it came to things that mattered. She'd expected Ulfric to trust her blindly not an hour after she captured his city, captured him, stripping him of his honor. It was like she didn't understand why he didn't go along with her every whim, and he was fascinated with how she frustrated herself when others couldn't read her mind like she seemed to expect. No, demand.

And now, he wasn't even sure if she understood the scope of what she was saying. Because Shezarrine didn't quite cut it. Ulfric wasn't quite sure if calling her Talos would be entirely true; the Dragonborn almost flippantly quoted Kynareth heralding her as 'The Last Twilight Dragon of the North', a title that invoked Alduin more than he was comfortable with. But he supposed that devouring his Soul gave precedent to such a name.

It seemed her titles almost fell over themselves as she continued on to her recovery with the Greybeards. Ysmir, Last Twilight Dragon of the North, Breath of Storm and Ghosts, Stormcrown, Dragonborn. He wasn't sure if he should present her to the Thalmor as proof of a mortal Ninth Divine or start invoking her name in curses or what.

Balgruuf seemed just as dumbfounded as he did as her story went on and on, getting more outlandish as it developed from a meet and greet with half of ancient Skyrim into a brutal fight against Alduin alongside Tsun and the three warriors from the Elder Scroll she read at the Throat of the World (and a quick aside that Elder Scrolls won't cause blindness if you read one about yourself--Ulfric had chosen to ignore the undeniable about the Dragonborn being the center of a prophecy written before the beginning of time), and finally into a reception just outside of Sovngarde with Kyne and Mara where she all but ascended to divinity.

"And so Kynareth sent me back to Nirn, and I landed at the Time-Wound of the Throat of the World. Drug myself to the Greybeards and they healed me as best as they were able. Then, I called Odahviing and flew back here," she finished in between gravely pants, motioning them to speak with a weak wave.

Ulfric didn't even know where to start. His mind jumped from memories of the meditative chants the Graybeards drilled into him over and over to the theories scholars of the Divines put forth, hundreds of years of arguing over the unity of the gods throughout Tamriel.

~

Balgruuf spoke first. "And how does this help us with our little Dominion problem?"

"What are they going to do against a bunch of dragons?"

"That's not a solution in the slightest."

"How so? If the Thalmor are dead--" Nariilu stopped and held her breath. She heard the faintest crack of a spell being cast, or it was just someone stepping on a stick.

"What--"

_"Shh!"_ The Men perked up, glancing around in tandem. Stormcloak placed his unbound hand on his sword, Balgruuf carried a simple axe on his belt that he didn't reach for. _"Laas,"_ she Shouted, barely forcing the Word from her throat. Nariilu gasped for air as a purple wave ran across Breezehome, lighting up the two Nords in bright blue, moving through the walls and identifying two tall, red figures standing and leaning at the side of her house.

She stood up and clutched her staff heavily, speeding towards the door by her standards, hobbling by anyone else's. The two figures stood up straighter, moving to the door faster than she could. And a knock sounded just as she reached the door to throw it open. And sure enough, two Thalmor Justiciars stood before her in enchanted robes, almost masking that they'd just been pressed to her wall.

The woman carried a staff of her own on her back, decorated in pearls and opals, a style of staff Nariilu wasn't versed enough in to name the school of magic it represented. And the man's fingers danced with fading purple whisps; he'd been altering the wall to be thinner, more likely than not. Listening in. Probably not long, unless he'd just had to recast the spell. Jarl Balgruuf and Stormcloak scrambled to their feet, making far more noise than necessary; both bottles of wine rested empty on her table, her own glass was barely touched.

"Alteration, eh? I'm rather fond of Destruction, myself," Nariilu said. She tapped the staff on the ground, shifting her weight so she rested more on the doorframe than the staff. "Speak. You know damn well you're interrupting something."

The woman reached inside her robe and pulled out a letter, ornately decorated with fine golden ink. "An invitation, from the Honorable First Emissary Elenwen, Aldmeri Dominion Ambassador to the Kingdom of Skyrim," she said.

Nariilu snatched the letter away, hating how she had to look up between them, though smooth skin and plump cheeks marked both of them as not quite past early adulthood. They weren't much older than thirty, and for a second Nariilu felt nostalgic for her first position after she graduated as a fully-fledged battlemage. She took a second to thumb open the wax seal, skimming over the…invitation to a party…at the Thalmor Embassy… _(please refrain from trespassing, stealing, murdering, freeing prisoners, and causing spectacles while on the premises)_. "Ha! You know, you two look awfully young," Nariilu said. "What, were you promoted after the untimely deaths of your predecessors? Did you hear of what happened the last time I was at the Embassy?"

The man blinked once, the only emotion that showed on his smooth face. "The Honorable First Emissary Elenwen, Aldmeri--"

"Get on with it, kid." Nariilu smirked as the woman made an almost imperceivable motion to move her hand towards the strap that held her staff. She wondered why she held a staff; they were useful for novices as a source of magicka to supplement ones' own natural ability, and for masters to channel powerful spells too dangerous to hold in the body for long. Either was troubling; apprentice mages were little firecrackers of danger, and giving a staff unsupervised to one was asking for someone to be turned inside out. On the other hand, a mage this young and still powerful enough to hold a staff confidently would speak volumes of the training the Justiciars received.

"…Jarl Balgruuf the Greater's invitation is waiting for him with his steward," he finished after a pause and a breath to recompose himself. "Good evening to you all." And the pair turned and left without any fanfare. Nariilu slammed the door shut behind them with all the force she could muster.

"Well! Jarl, it's been a pleasure, but we've both got a rat problem to deal with," Nariilu turned and said. "Until then, I'm afraid I'll have to conclude our discussion."

Jarl Balgruuf stomped to the door. "A dragon army isn't a solution. It's a problem."

"Well, then I suppose it's a rather good thing we're friends, my Jarl."

"You're living in a fantasy of your own devices. If dragons bow to power, how long until they notice you're half-dead as it is? What about after you're dead and gone? You'll pave the way for the dragons to enslave all of Tamriel again."

"I never said I wouldn't slay every dragon. Just that they have their uses."

The Jarl chuckled as he opened the door, letting in a night breeze that made the hearth stutter before it roared in warmth. "Perhaps…Perhaps you are cut out to be a scheming politician after all. You've been a horrible influence, Ulfric."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback much appreciated <3


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